Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (37 page)

Epilogue

The
following days and weeks were a blur to Nick. He functioned, but barely. Red
practically oversaw S3 and protected Nick from the majority of the
backlash-bullshit from the missions.

The two
Afghan army battalions returned to Kabul, quickly re-establishing order. Police
officers gradually resumed their duties, and the nation’s president vowed to
relentlessly hunt down the Taliban and chase them all the way to the border.

S3 vacated
the warehouse, leaving it abandoned once more, and returned to Bagram. The team
members engulfed the wounded: nursing them, checking on them, encouraging them.

The Afghan
mission to take down Rasool Deraz had cost Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter eight
deaths and over a dozen moderate-to-light injuries. It would take months to
rebuild S3 into a fighting force.

The death of
Marcus deeply wounded Nick. Losing Marcus rekindled the pain of losing Nick’s
best friend and spotter, Nolan Flynn, back in the ’80s, whom he lost to the
Soviets.

Afghanistan
had cost him Flynn then, and now Marcus.

And the loss
of Marcus brought back the black cancer of remorse inside Nick.

Why had it
been Marcus he had ordered into the streets to wave down the tanks? Why had he
run out of his home after fighting with Anne the night she was later killed?
Why had he ordered S3 into the Mexican slum, costing the lives of Lizard and so
many others in the process? Were those close to him simply doomed to tragedy or
death?

So many
dead. So much heartache.

It consumed
Nick’s soul and shamefully chipped away at remained of his heart.

Nick had
fallen so deep into the abyss that upon the unit’s return to the States, Red
and Allen met and decided Nick needed to get away. They called Isabella, who
immediately said she wanted to see Nick anyway.

Nick agreed
to return to Mexico, but Red and Allen knew better than to trust Nick to take
care of himself. If left on his own, Nick wouldn’t make the trip to Mexico or
even contact Isabella. He would spend weeks and weeks, drifting across the
country on lonely highways and diving into bottles too deep to ever escape
from.

So Red and
Allen helped Nick pack and against his strenuous objections, they flew with him
to Mexico City, where Isabella promptly swept him up in her arms. She promised
she wouldn’t let him out of her sight.

And with
that, she grabbed his arm and walked with him to their vehicle. Red and Allen
hauled Nick’s luggage behind them and watched as Nick seemed to awaken to the
positive energy and spirit of Isabella. Even the walk with her through the
airport appeared to revive him.

They loaded
Nick’s luggage into Isabella’s armored SUV and waved, as the two drove off into
the distance. Isabella had taken some family-emergency leave from the police
department and booked a secluded beach resort for the next two weeks, after
which she’d drag him back to her large condo.

“Isabella
will save that man from the darkness,” Red said, watching their vehicle until
it disappeared in the traffic.

“She will,”
Allen agreed. “And then he’ll come back to the only thing he knows.”

There was
some concern in the statement, and Red knew Allen wasn’t a big fan of guns or
violence.

“Nick does
what Nick knows how to do,” Red said. “Same as how you do what you know best.”

Despite the
fact that he had enough money from his book sales of Nick’s story to last him
ten lifetimes, Allen had recently launched a watchdog group of senior reporters
to conduct difficult and dangerous investigations into public officials and
agencies.

“I suppose
you’re right,” Allen said.

Allen knew
Nick would do more than just return to S3 when he healed. Nick would resume his
quest for vengeance against a particular U.S. Senator from Texas. And while
Senator Ray Gooden
deserved to die at the end of Nick’s gun, Allen had plans to change Nick’s mind
on that regard. There were other ways to take a man down, and there were fates
worse than a bullet fired from long range.

But for now, Nick needed
some sun, some Isabella, and some distance from the dark art he was a master
of. If only for a little while.

Author’s Note

It should go without
saying that clearly I am no expert on Islam. Though I have read a couple dozen
books on Islamic terrorism and armed jihad, I am confident I have made some
mistakes while attempting to fairly present their side. Nonetheless, I have tried
to portray their goals and beliefs as accurately as possible.

I owe my beautiful wife
Danah so much for all her help on this book. She helped with the characters,
she helped with the ending, she helped with rewrites on some of the chapters.
She is a big reason for why this book, in my opinion, is my best ever.

I also need to thank several current or prior uniformed members of our
Armed Forces, who helped me make this book happen. These include former Army
Captain
Mathew Bocian
, Army Ranger Sgt
Travis, and USMC SSGT Frank Kovach.

Other works by Stan R. Mitchell:

Sold Out (Nick Woods, No. 1)

Mexican Heat (Nick Woods, No. 2)

Afghan Storm
(Nick Woods, No.3)

Little Man, and the Dixon County War

Detective
Danny Acuff, (Book 1)

Soldier On

About the author:

Stan R. Mitchell writes some of the most action-packed, fast-moving
novels around. Tired of slow-paced, investigative novels that take 50 pages to
excite you? Look no further!

Stan is the best-selling author of 5 novels in 3 different time periods.
He's also a prior infantry Marine with Combat Action Ribbon, and a former
journalist who spent ten years in the newspaper business, learning how to hook
the reader, cut out the filler, and just tell the story.

In short, Stan is knowledgeable, he's fast, and his books will blow you
away. You can learn more about him
at
http://stanrmitchell.com
.

If you enjoyed “
Afghan Storm (Nick Woods, No.3)
” please consider dropping a short review of it on Amazon. Reviews go
miles and miles toward helping readers discover new authors, such as Mitchell.

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Don’t miss Mitchell’s other exciting book,
Little
Man, and the Dixon County War
! (Free
preview follows.) Book description:

Blood.
Pain. Justice.

In the
savage Wild West, these are three words that are more than just words on a
page.

You know
them. You live them. And not a single dawn arrives that you’re not thankful to
still be alive.

In this
brutal, untamed landscape, comes an honest man, who will do what’s right even
if it costs him his life.

Awaiting
him is an evil cattle baron named McConnell, who’s the most powerful man in the
West.

The
honest man -- Paul Zachary -- has just hung a badge on his vest, while
McConnell has just set his sights on the new lawman.

McConnell
has bribed or buried every man who's ever stood up to him, and he has almost a
hundred gunhands under his control.

It looks
like the mortician is about to get really busy…

“Little
Man, and the Dixon County War” is a fast-paced thriller set in the Western era.
Fans of “Appaloosa” and “Django Unchained” will almost certainly love this
book.

But be
forewarned. There are no cattle drives or beautiful sunsets. No slow scenes
with formal manners and tender dames.

This is
the gritty West. A place where lawless land barons push the weak, and sworn law
officers balance keeping the peace and staying alive. Blood flows early and
often, and danger lies waiting around every corner.

This is
not a book for the faint of heart, or for those who want to imagine living out
west before the land was tamed. Had you lived in these times and on these
pages, you'd keep a gun by your side. Probably two. And you'd damn well better
have known how to use them.

This book
-- as you can see -- contains mature language and moves fast. It's a hard,
thrilling ride, so if you choose to saddle up, prepare to be thrown off a time
or two. And if you make it to the end, you’re not done yet: perhaps the only
thing more thrilling and explosive than this book is its ending.

(Publisher’s
note: Due to the high demand for a follow-up book, production has already begun
on Book 2. It’s expected to drop in the Spring of 2016.)

Free Extended Preview of
Little Man, and the Dixon
County War
follows below…

Chapter 1

My life took a turn for
the worse the night a boy named Joe burst through the door of the Marshal’s
office in Belleville, Texas.

“Mr. Zachary, come quick,”
the boy panted, still standing in the doorway, holding it open. Little Joe,
probably about ten, wiped down tables and picked up plates down at Frank’s
Saloon. An easy enough job, but tonight he looked panicked and out of breath.

“What’s the trouble,” I
said, easing my chair to the floor and taking my boots off the desk.

“Down at Frank’s Saloon.”
Little Joe gasped between his frantic details. “Big guy named Bill Garland. And
two others.”

I stood. Looked over at
the double barrel shotgun leaning in the corner. Decided two barrels wouldn’t
do against three men. “What happened?” I asked as I grabbed my hat and started
for the door.

“This huge guy Bill
Garland beat up two men. Bad.”

“Oh?”

“Even kicked them when
they were down. Used the toe of his boots, too. Right in their sides. He hurt
'em bad. Real bad. Better hurry.”

“Bill Garland, eh?” I repeated
as we walked down the dusty street. I knew Garland had quite a reputation. He’d
made a name for himself after killing six men in fair and square gunfights. I’d
need to be doubly careful tonight.

I took a deep breath,
flexed the fingers in both my hands, and asked, “Why didn’t Frank pull out his
trusty double-barrel shotgun from behind the bar? He knows how to deal with
out-of-control drunks. Been doing it for years.”

“He started to,” the boy
said exasperated, “but Bill Garland’s two partners drew on him first and took
his gun.”

I pulled the brim of my
hat lower. I kept my eyes on the doors of the saloon ahead, while keeping my
peripheral vision on the dark shadows along the street.

“Now,” the boy said,
walking fast to keep up, “they’re claiming they’ll have one final drink, as
well as take a bottle to go. And when Frank said they owed him five dollars for
the drinks, plus damages of fifteen dollars for all the tables and chairs they
broke, Bill Garland said 'no way.' He said that Frank actually owed him twenty
dollars for the fact he’d gotten hurt fighting.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s what Bill
said, but it ain’t true a’tall. I saw the whole fight, and Bill never even got
a lick landed on him.”

“Sounds ’bout right,” I
said. I edged closer to the darker side of the street, now just fifty feet away
from the doors.

“Bill Garland told Frank
he ought to run a safer establishment, and that because of hurting his back
while fighting to defend himself, he wouldn’t be able to work for a couple
weeks.”

“What did Frank do?” I
asked, lowering my voice. I motioned for the boy to do the same.

“He argued at first,” Joe whispered,
“but when Bill Garland said they’d bust the place up more if he didn’t pay, he
handed them twenty dollars and gave them a new, unopened bottle of whiskey.
Just like they asked.”

“He did?” I asked,
skeptical. Frank Connors was the toughest saloon owner I knew, and he’d been
handling drunks and gunfighters for years. Had killed quite a few, too.

“Of course he gave them
the money,” the boy replied. “They’ve got his shotgun, and they’re threatening
to break up the place worse than it already is. And all the other people in
there are scared to death.”

I felt a bit of fear --
real queasiness -- down in my gut.

“Stay back,” I said.